to a garden girl

the flowers made of dust to color

and fragrance spread of his breath

down upon the earth

rise to meet the highest peaks

of rock of the iron

to which they and we are bound

made of our own flesh

we reach for the sky of blue

and black of cold of space

far higher than the highest level

beyond our reach

not content to stay below

our spirits cry

some for freedom's burst beyond to the peace

we know exists, but out our reach

somehow we know

it's in our past, vague like a memory of a long gone dream

some for the pillage and the plunder to get it while it can be got

to reach for those stars and conquer

make themselves a throne of man

the flowers with their quiet speech will gasp a solemn breath

they'll laugh and say,

that it is only for their doom

nature shows the splendor and the truth

glory cannot be gotten by these means

all will turn to rust

who by means of self and greed

and denial of what is plainly shown by nature's own display

will torpid turn to ruin

as by example see the volcano roar

in its skirts destruction by fiery red and molten melt

what is left in that wake is cold, solidified blackened mineral

'til centuries pass

the machine of wind and weather by the passing of the time

crevices fill with the seeds of life and plants begin to grow

the sun shines upon that bleak freeze of lava rock

to yield its fruit

 

the fruit is mild, it does not resist

it simply, lovely is just like,

made and bred to be like him,

 

the flowers made of dust to color

and fragrance spread of his breath

down upon the earth

rise to meet the highest peaks

rise above the rock and iron

now partake, though only in part,

looking up to those peaks and fiery sun

do not resist,

yielding up to see his face

to be like him who made them thus

like the glory of the flowers and the majesty of the peaks

see them sprinkled by sparks of white above

in the midnight blue

those shining stars,

portals of the heaven's star-gates we pass into-

befriend,

like the flowers and the lowly weeds that bloom

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

There is depth and beauty to this poem. The language, the way in which it is written is distinctly unique to the writer and different. I feel, at once, like I am reading something of old; yet, it is current and present. I read this once and then read it again. It warms with the reading, blossoming like a flower, and was all the better the second time around. Bravo!

[RuseInex]

your own words here are lovely and of depth- they warm my heart in appreciation. this was written/inspired on behalf of another poet, she wrote of suffering, of being rejected and abused by those she loved. and i thank you for your beautiful comments